summer went straight through your tires
by black-ostias
Summary: you get up to the rooftop and sure enough daryl's there, lying on a beat-up mattress he must've dragged from the old storage unit. he's all bundled up in his jacket and poncho, eyes closed in something like peace. rick/daryl, in the empty space of seasons 3 and 4.


**reposting from ao3 because what the hell. it's my first ever darick fic after all, so i'm quite fond of it.**

**title from ladytron. nothing else is mine either.**

**this is from rick's pov by the way, if that's not clear enough.**

* * *

You get up to the rooftop and sure enough Daryl's there, lying on a beat-up mattress he must've dragged from the old storage unit. He's all bundled up in his jacket and poncho, eyes closed in something like peace. You watch him for a while, then call his name out, and he snaps to attention, sitting up with an alert, wary expression on his face. "Hey, nothing's wrong, just checking to see you haven't freezed to death," you say, holding up your blanket as a truce flag.

He lies back down again with an amused half-snort, half-sigh. "You can stop tryna make excuses to haul your ass up here, y'know."

You chuckle, settle in the space beside him and drape the blanket over the both of you, more layers to shield you both. "Well, this time, s'partially true. Nights are getting colder."

He burrows into the added warmth, inching closer to you, but only a little. "You keep actin like we're in goddamn Illinois or somethin."

"Well." You let your head fall to the side, look straight into those glowing eyes that aren't, for once, slanted in exhaustion or unease. "It doesn't hurt to be careful."

He's silent for a while, just melting your gaze as solidly as you're holding it. Then, hesitantly, as if the words don't fit in his mouth, "Always worried bout me, huh."

You smile a bit, touch your fisted knuckles to his cheekbone, least effective punch in the history of combat. "Thought you'd be used to that by now."

"Won't ever be used to it." Unseen under the covers, his hand has found your thigh, and he's kneading it in a way he knows just drives you out of your skin. But the rough tone in his voice catches something in you, and you move closer until you're one tangled line, his face in your hands and your thumbs sweeping over the hollows under his eyes. He looks baffled and a bit panicky, and it may have to do with the warped anger in your face and voice.

"Daryl, we wouldn't've made it this far without you, you've done so much more for us than we ever did for you. The most selfless, bravest man I know, so don't you act like it's not right for me to worry over you."

By the time you finish your little tirade your hands have migrated into his hair, and he has your shoulders in a near-bruising grasp. His mouth has parted in – you don't know, there's no naming the emotions crisscrossing his face.

"You fuckin –" He face contorts before he can finish his sentence, and like the man of action he always is, he gives up articulation and just mashes your mouths together so hard your foreheads clock into each other. You gasp at the brief ringing pain you feel at that, only barely remembering to kiss him back. His icy hands snake up your shirt and flutter on your stomach, but his tongue curling around yours is blessedly warm.

And that's how you find yourself on your back with your legs tucked in the bends of his arms as he sinks into you unbearably slow. Your jeans are still hanging off one ankle and he only has his fly down but you can't bring yourself to care, you feel like you're melting into the galvanized roof. Your fingernails are digging into his deltoids, the muscles bunching and straining in your grip as he moves. Maddening little thrusts nudging that place inside you and making your mind white out every time, divine kind of punishment. You push back helplessly against him, not even realizing you're moaning until he nips your shoulder, hisses for you to keep it down.

He's hidden his face in the crook of your neck, and though you'd very much like to see him you don't ask it of him, you can't. Somehow you know that would be too much for the both of you.

When he comes he's near-silent, nothing but a whisper of your name, all broken and rent-open and utterly life-changing, and you're undone by that before he even gets his hand on you.

Once you both can catch your breath again, he slumps beside you with an 'oof' and starts wiping you off with his poncho. "Aw man," you laugh, a little embarrassed by his ministrations, all as you try to pull your jeans on again, which is hard to do when rough fabric is scraping over your still tender dick. "Now it's gonna smell like me."

He smiles cryptically. "That's the idea."

You can feel your face flush anew at the thought, of you marking Daryl somehow. He notices this, and continues, a mischievous glint in his eyes, "Next time you're fuckin me. Then I'm cleanin myself off on ya."

You gape at him for a while, feeling your skin glow impossibly hotter. "You. Really? You wanna. I mean. Daryl, you aren't obligated to do this or anything, I'm. I'm okay with how things are."

He shrugs, looks down and away, seeming to have used up all the bravado he has. "Just look like you're enjoyin it so much is all, just wanna see what the fuss is about," he mumbles.

You really can't help what you do next. You're so overwhelmed by this blatant display of trust that you roll yourself on top of him, pepper kisses all along his face like a lovesick teenager. He kinda freezes at first, but then his hand slowly slips under your shirt to close around the small of your back, slide up to the valley between your shoulder blades in one shiverydelicious caress. You murmur and meet his lips, linger there for a while.

He smirks up at you when you pull back, smooths his thumb over your collarbone. "We should get some shuteye now."

"Up here?" you ask, and you already feel stupid the second that leaves your mouth. He just graciously bites back his widening grin and says, "That'd be romantic, but our cells are gon'be more hazard free."

You chuckle, nest your head in the crook of his neck for a second. "Remind me never to say anything right after you've fucked me dry."

Now he's the one blushing, and shoving you off with a grumbled "fuckin put your pants on right already, ya sorry sap."

You make your way to your cell block in silence, him sneaking glances at you and looking away hastily when he finds you have your eyes trained on him the entire time. You can't stop grinning.

You look in on Carl and arrange the sheets around little Judy before walking back to your cell. Daryl squeezes the back of your neck for a long moment before heading to his perch.

When you sleep that night, your dreams aren't filled with blood and death, but with Daryl, and the corners of his mouth and eyes as he smiles.


End file.
